Keeping our records straight 3A: pre-Claveria Carcar records

After years of the space being left blank in the family tree, I finally found the baptism record of my great-great-grandmother, Berenguela Barcelo. She was baptized 21 April 1827 at 7 days. But her full name there was Ma. Berina. It’s conceivable Berenguela was what her parents had in mind all along, because while Berina is nearer Severina, Berenguela was what she was called in her marriage to my great-great-grandfather, Hilario Aleonar in 1852, and Berenguela it was ‘til the end of her days in 1904.

Actually, Hilario himself was Apolinario Aleonar in that 1852 marriage record (and others). He was Valeriano Hilario before Claveria. But these discrepancies account for almost nothing when you generally find many more inconsistencies in people’s names in the books. For instance, the said baptism gave out Berina’s father as Francisco Alcario but more records called the father Alcario Juanillo: he was Alcario Juanillo in his marriage in 1815 and, as a matter of fact, in the baptism for his child after Berenguela, Catalino Placido in 1829, he was Alcario Juanillo. There were more variances after that, of course and he was also Macario, Alcadio and Arcadio.

And cabezas Cleto Martin would be Martin Cleto in the next; Francisco Luis, Luis Francisco, and Santiago Cornelio, Cornelio Santiago. So if your purpose was for an official claim, these records would not serve you well. On top of that, the standard remedial procedure in our country is to produce an affidavit from two disinterested persons attesting that they knew the subject and that those names referred to the same person. You know, two disinterested somebodies who are still alive today (of course) who had already been around in the 1820s. More like disembodied.

Still and all, a rarified experience will befall anyone going over the Carcar Baptism records for 1827-1838. You will journey through time to when individuals were still going around without surnames. As you go drone through the names of children for baptism, and of their parents, their cabezas and padrinos and madrinas, you will also feel the queasiness and exasperation that Claveria or other Spanish officials of the time must have felt handed a list like that—and certainly could have led to the historic decree of 1849.

But, you encounter new discoveries, too, like you’ll notice some individuals were actually using the surnames their family is now using in Carcar. But you can only conclude that these were not used for all individuals in the entire family and therefore could not quite qualify to be called family names yet.

In 1827, Marcelo Ybañis had her daughter baptized only as Ma. Potenciana and Juan Ybañis’s son was Francisco Simon. Cesareo Ybañez’s son was baptized as Mateo Wenceslao in 1844. Leoterio Navarro had his son baptized Lorenzo Ygnacio in 1828. These families did eventually become Ybañez and Navarro.

Guillermo Galicano, long the fiscal of the Carcar church and father of the general and Senator Troadio Galicano was baptized as Guillermo Galicano in Carcar in 1838. Guillermo is the only child of his parents to appear in my records and probably his father was influential enough to have been allowed to retain Galicano as the surname for his family. It must have been a special privilege because before that, the family did not appear to have been using Galicano and nor does the name belong to the alphabetical groupings for Carcar. In fact, the father was known as Salvador Modesto and was from Bohol.

On the other hand, the surname Alvarado, now indisputably belonging to a single Carcar strain had been used by various individuals who later on took other surnames. Juan Albarado[1] became Juan Barangan; Eugenio Albarado (son of Leonardo Salvador), became Eugenio Alfafara; Mateo Albarado, Alejado; Ysidoro Albarado, Barason; and Tamayo Albarado (AKA Tamayo Mariano) and his son Quirino Albarado–Alcordo.

Meanwhile, Samson Mercado became Samson Alesna.

A happy ending, though: Through the years, some church clerks had post-notated some of these records with the subsequent surnames of the individuals and the gesture is absolutely welcome: your family search goes so much easier. But the IDs were pretty random and not all families had the luck. Or–the intrigue–were they even then already politically biased? Anyway, the “favored” individuals belong to the following families: Barluado, Aleson, Daytec, Campaña, Baran, Ybañez, Sarausad, Panidar, Alegarbes, Camoro, Remocaldo, Sator, Sinajon, Candiong, Laoronal, Alcuisar, Alcontin, Catao, Alesna, Barason, Dayonot, Dayondon, Alcover, Dayanan, Lañas, Barellano, Aledo, Dayagdal, Enad, Navarro, Barcelona, Alejado, Barateria, Barga, Barbadillo, Campugan, Satorre, Barauidan, Alcorisa, Campanilla, Alegado, Mancao, Barcelo, Alcordo, Barangan, Alcoseba, Aleonar, Alegrado, Alfafara for 1827-1829 and some for 1836. Also, I had jumped directly to Galicano in 1838 just for the person. I’m excited to meet the others next time.

I was working on the said volume Friday and Saturday the other week and am dying to get back to Carcar hopefully today to get on with it. The passion is indeed overwhelming.

[1] Apparently, the consonants b and v are not that distinguishable from each other in spoken Spanish than they are in English, especially when they appear in the middle of a word. They recognize the fact, too, so that Spanish speakers even try to sub-define the unclear distinction by calling them b grande (big b) and v pequeño (small v). That may be the reason why there is an Alba as well as an Alva—and Rivera and a Ribera–in Spain, itself. Blame not too much the Cebuano and Carcar clerks, therefore.